


The One With The Wooing

by withmarkers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withmarkers/pseuds/withmarkers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, you should go out with me,” he says, bent over the boards and leaning into Taylor’s space as Taylor fixes the laces on his skates.</p>
<p>Taylor glances up, brows furrowed. “Out. With the guys or something?”</p>
<p>“No, just me.”</p>
<p>(Or, the one where Biz asks Taylor out, and Taylor says no, and Biz refuses to take that for an answer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With The Wooing

**Author's Note:**

> For Julia. <3

After sitting on the idea for nearly three weeks, Biz is convinced this will go perfectly.

 

It doesn’t.

 

At all.

 

-

 

“So, you should go out with me,” he says, bent over the boards and leaning into Taylor’s space as Taylor fixes the laces on his skates.

 

Taylor glances up, brows furrowed. “Out. With the guys or something?”

 

“No, just me.”

 

Taylor tugs on his laces, propping his leg up. “Out where?” He still looks confused, like why is Biz talking to him, which doesn’t make sense at all. Biz talks to him all the time. It’s Taylor’s fault, because he doesn’t usually talk back, much. “I’m not going to a bar or a club with you, Biz.”

 

Biz makes an offended noise. He’s not sure Taylor gets this.

 

“No, on a date. Dinner, maybe a movie... I know it’s been a while, but you are aware of the concept, yeah?”

 

Taylor’s skate slips and hits the mat with a _thunk_. “I know what a date is.”

 

“So?” Biz puts on his best charming, you-know-you-want-to smile.

 

“No.”

  
Taylor looks like he wants to say a thousand things right then, which catches Biz’s attention, because remember, Taylor doesn’t talk a whole lot, ever, except maybe when he’s moved past exhausted and into downright punchy, but that doesn’t happen much either. Biz can count the number of times that situation’s come up on one hand.

 

He’s intrigued.

 

Then he hears “ _No._ ”

 

“Why not?”

 

More of the I-want-to-say-a-thousand-things-but-I’m-saying-none-of-them face. It amuses Biz. He wants to see it more often. It means Taylor’s having lots of thoughts, and Biz wants to hear them. He really does.

 

“You’re crazy,” Taylor says flatly. Then he stands up and skates off, and Biz frowns.

 

That did not go as planned.

 

-

 

“You don’t date crazy people?” Biz tries, as they make their way off the ice after practice. This is serious. He wants to know.

 

Taylor gives him another one of his looks, the rare ones. The one that is vaguely annoyed, unamused, frustrated, tired. “I don’t date men.”

 

“You don’t date at all,” Biz points out, and Taylor’s jaw tightens.

 

He quickly amends, “Hey, relax, man. It’s not a jab. I’m totally poking holes in your argument, though, so you’re gonna have to tell me the truth.” He punctuates it with a soft nudge to Taylor’s shoulder, and he can see it takes Taylor enough by surprise that he stumbles a little. “Go out with me.”

 

Taylor flicks a glance over at him, longer this time. “You’re serious.”

 

“As a heart attack,” Biz tells him.

 

“Not funny,” Taylor says.

 

“I’m serious.” Biz wants to stop, but he hears voices behind them, and it’s not the time to do that. It doesn’t deter him too much, however. “Let me take you out.”

 

Taylor shakes his head. “No thanks.”

 

Biz chews on the inside of his lip and watches Taylor disappear into the dressing room. This is going to take more thought than he intended.

 

-

-

 

Three games later, Taylor’s wearing a grey suit with a blue shirt and matching tie that Biz hasn’t seen… ever, he doesn’t think. It looks fantastic and Biz’s eyes are glued to him (and his ass) for a good two minutes before he realizes he’s staring.

 

“You look smoking hot,” he tells Taylor in a low tone, letting his appreciative (yet not so appreciative that it scares Taylor off, he’s careful about these kinds of things) smile linger as he says it.

 

Taylor blinks.

 

“Really,” Biz assures him. “Gorgeous. Wear that more often.”

 

He walks away without letting Taylor thank him (he doesn’t even know if that would have happened, but whatever, he’s made his point).

 

-

-

-

 

They play Chicago and Taylor scores a goal, gets two assists, and they win it, 4-3. Biz is happy, Smitty’s happy, Coach Tip is happy, Taylor is probably happy even though Biz only saw him grin once, everybody’s happy.

 

He plunks down next to Taylor’s seat on the plane, disappointed when Taylor’s shoulders tense instead of relax, but he’s determined not to let it sway him in his mission. “You played a good game tonight, man. Good job.”

 

“Thanks,” Taylor says, quiet as ever.

 

“You’re allowed to be excited, you know.” Biz nudges him, watching his face. “Happy.”

 

Taylor stares down at the floor. “Sometimes it feels wrong.”

 

It’s only four words, but Biz thinks, _progress_. “I know.”

 

-

 

Taylor dozes off midway through the flight. His head lolls to the side, forehead barely brushing Biz’s shoulder before he jerks awake, scrubbing at his face tiredly. “Sorry,” he mutters.

 

Biz says lightly, “Don’t worry about it,” and hands him a pillow.

 

-

-

 

A week later, Taylor wears The Suit again.

 

Biz grins brightly at him, utterly unashamed, and winks.

 

Taylor still ignores him, but Biz is staring, because _The Suit_ , and the twitching at the corner of Taylor’s mouth is impossible to miss.

 

-

-

-

 

“We should go see Goon,” Biz tries next. “That’s a movie.”

 

“I know what it is.” Taylor almost rolls his eyes at it.

 

“It looks funny.”

 

“You mean ridiculous?”

 

“You’ll laugh. I guarantee it. Will you go with me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you have other plans?” Biz asks.

 

Taylor shifts. “No…”

 

“Are you dying?”

 

“Biz.”

 

“Then you have no good reason to say no,” Biz says. “Wait, you don’t like, hate my guts, do you?”

 

Taylor does actually roll his eyes, then. Biz grins.

 

“Tell you what, I will even let you pay for your own movie ticket and your own drink and your own popcorn. And you can drive yourself. That way it’s very non-date like. Deal?”

 

He’s holding out his hand for Taylor to shake. Taylor stares at it, then looks up at him.

 

“Not a date,” he says, half a question.

 

“Nope,” Biz says cheerfully. “Just two teammates going to see a hockey movie and eating food the trainers will bitch us out for.”

 

Taylor bites his lip, briefly. “Alright.”

 

Biz grins, and refrains from pumping his fist in the air (but only barely).

 

-

 

Biz gets there first, and buys both tickets. He hands one to Taylor when Taylor gets there, looking quite nice in a blue t-shirt, black sports jacket, and jeans. The shirt brings out his eyes.

 

Taylor narrows said eyes. “You said this wasn’t a date.”

 

Biz shrugs. “Oops?”

 

Thankfully, Taylor doesn’t put up much of a fuss, but he does buy a bottle of water and a pack of Skittles and offer Biz a handful of them.

 

_Progress_ , Biz thinks, decisively.

 

During the previews he keeps up a steady chatter of commentary and jokes, getting a few half-smiles out of Taylor while doing so, but he quiets down when the movie starts. He doesn’t want Taylor walking out on him, after all, nor is he interested in getting kicked out of the theatre.

 

The movie is great. Hilarious, and entertaining, to say the least, and Biz catches Taylor hiding a grin a few times. “Told you you’d like it,” he whispers in Taylor’s ear at one point, leaning in close, but not too close.

 

“Yes, Biz.”

 

The bag of Skittles is perched on Taylor’s thigh, high near his hip so it doesn’t fall. Accidental, blame-the-darkness groping is out of the question, but Biz watches him out of the corner of his eye and reaches for the Skittles at the same time Taylor does, deliberately bumping their hands together. Biz grins at him, wraps his fingers around Taylor’s squeezing once, and letting go.

 

Taylor jerks a little, startled, and turns his head to stare at Biz, but Biz ignores it, settling back into his seat and gazing at the screen. He doesn’t get any more Skittles, but it doesn’t matter.

 

-

 

They get all the way to Taylor’s car without saying anything before Taylor says, “Thanks,” with that almost-smile on his face. “That was fun.”

 

“Your lips are multicoloured,” Biz points out, trying not to laugh. He doesn’t reach out and touch, even though he wants to, a lot.

 

Immediately Taylor flinches and covers his mouth with his hand, rubbing his fingertips over his lips and licking them. “Great.”

 

“Don’t. It’s cute.”

 

Taylor opens his mouth, and closes it, turning to unlock his car. “See you tomorrow, Biz.”

 

Biz waves. “Bye.”

 

-

-

-

 

There’s frustration written in the lines on Taylor’s face as he approaches Biz. Almost everyone’s left already, tired and annoyed at the combination of a bad loss to Detroit, shitty weather _in_ Detroit, and the shitty weather delaying their flight nearly three _dragging_ hours resulting in them all stumbling, bleary-eyed, to their respective cars back in Phoenix.

 

“My car won’t start,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Do you- ”

 

“Sure,” Biz agrees easily, before he Taylor can even finish the question. “No problem. Climb in.”

 

Taylor looks relieved. “Thanks.”

 

The drive to Taylor’s is pretty quiet, except for Taylor giving him a few directions here and there. Biz hasn’t ever been to his place. Normally he’d fill the silence more, but he’s exhausted as well, faint circles under his eyes that probably mirror Taylor’s, and it’s taking most of his concentration to stay awake enough not to crash into a lamppost.

 

“Here,” Taylor says, and Biz turns into the driveway of a small, gorgeous-looking condo.

 

“Nice place,” he comments.

 

“I like it,” Taylor replies, voice low and tired. When Biz pulls to a stop and throws his car into park, Taylor reaches around to pull his duffel from the backseat, and Biz lets his forehead hit the steering wheel, eyes falling closed. It’s a good thirty minute drive to his house from here, in decent traffic, but even fifteen minutes seems like eternity when he’s this shot.

 

“Look, you should crash in the guest room,” is the next thing Taylor says, and Biz’s neck twinges as he drags his head up.

 

“I should whaaa-?”

 

Taylor shifts in the seat, breaking eye contact. “It’s late, and you’re tired. Get some sleep; we don’t have practice tomorrow and it’s better if you just… don’t. Please.”

 

Biz blinks at him. “Uh. Sure, I mean, if you – sure. Thanks, man. ‘Preciate it.”

 

Taylor shrugs. “It’s safer,” he says, and Biz recognizes the tightness in his tone for what it is, and lets their shoulders bump together as they walk toward the front door.

 

“Thanks,” he repeats, making sure Taylor’s looking at him when he says it.

 

He follows Taylor inside, curiously looking around. The first thing he notices about the inside is that it looks like a typical bachelor pad – black leather furniture, big tv, video games in the living room, not much on the walls – but Taylor’s condo, despite having lots of big, open windows, feels empty. It doesn’t feel like a home.

 

It’s pretty clean, and it’s not like Taylor doesn’t have a lot of _stuff_ , but there’s something missing.

 

-

 

When Biz wakes up, he smells coffee. It smells incredible. He voices this when he gets to the kitchen, in a pair of Taylor’s old sweats, scratching at his chest and yawning, and Taylor quirks a tiny grin at him and slides a cup across the island.

 

“Cream or sugar?”

 

“Black is fine,” Biz hums, and spends the next two minutes breathing in the smell of it before he takes a sip. “This shit is amazing.”

 

Taylor almost laughs at that. “Thanks.”

 

“I’m gonna be honest, Taylor,” Biz says seriously, and secretly enjoys watching Taylor’s eyes widen. “I might never leave, now that you’ve given me this orgasmic coffee.”

 

“You’re such a drama queen,” Taylor mutters, and Biz grins delightedly.

 

“How’d you sleep?”

 

Taylor’s eyes still look tired, but there’s a brightness in them that Biz hasn’t seen in a while, and he’s gotten a laugh, a snicker, and an insult all in one short conversation, so he’s thinking probably the answer is yes. Either that, or Biz is doing something right.

 

He hopes that’s the case.

 

“Not too bad,” Taylor admits. “Was the guest room okay?”

 

“Comfy as fuck,” Biz tells him. “You might have to kick me out.”

 

Taylor rubs a hand across the back of his neck, t-shirt stretching across his chest. “There’s some eggs keeping warm in the oven, if you want. I don’t have much, but… And I need to call a tow truck. Or a mechanic. For my car. There’s extra towels in the bathroom if you want to shower, or not. It’s up to you.” His eyes flicker down to Biz’s bare chest for half a second before darting away.

 

“I can give you a ride,” Biz offers. “Since I gotta drive home anyway. ‘s no big. I know a guy.”

 

“You know a guy?”

“Mechanic, yeah. Cal. Good guy, not one of those sleazebags. I can give him a call.”

 

-

-

-

 

It’s the near-constant expression of surprise on Taylor’s face that’s the root of it, really. Like he can’t believe what’s going on. Like he’s not sure why Biz does the things he does, and sure, on one hand, that makes sense, because Biz makes a point not to go with the flow, but the incident with the mechanic? That’s called convenience, and being nice, and you know, considerate, and if consideration and niceness startles Taylor, then Biz is going to make damned sure he gets rid of that habit.

 

Taylor deserves better.

 

And yeah, that’s leaning in a pretty sappy direction for Biz’s taste, but whatever. Better this, than like, flowers.

 

-

-

 

At ten in the morning on a Saturday, an off day, Biz knocks on Taylor’s door.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Taylor’s bleary-eyed and sleep mussed, and damn, that’s an urge to hug someone if Biz has ever had one.  He shoves it aside in favour of grinning. “We’re going out.”

 

“Biz, I told you, I’m not-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Biz waves a hand, “But not like that. We’re going shopping.”

 

“Shopping.” Taylor looks sceptical.

 

He’s not wearing a shirt.

 

Biz’s eyes linger for a fraction of a second, because _damn_. “Yeah,” he says, shaking himself out of it. “Shopping. For shit for your apartment. To make it more homey.”

 

“My apartment’s just fine,” Taylor frowns, but he’s tensed a little, like he’s bracing himself for a fight.

 

Biz steps forward and Taylor steps back, inside, and Biz closes the door behind him. “I brought you coffee,” he offers, holding out the cup, because he knows thanks to the last few weeks how Taylor takes it. Two shots of milk, one sugar. “Just humour me, Taylor. Please? You need to get out more. It’ll be fun. I’m a great shopper. We’ll just go to Wal-Mart.”

 

“Wal-Mart, Biz?”

 

“Yeah. Inexpensive, yet awesome. Come on. Get dressed. I don’t mind if you go out like that, but the rest of the world might.”

 

Taylor ducks his head, flushing slightly at Biz’s wink. “I’ll be right back.”

 

-

 

“We’re not leaving until you pick something out with color.”

 

There’s a painting in their cart that Biz had spotted Taylor eyeing. He’d snatched it up over Taylor’s protests and finally gotten a “Yeah, it’s nice” with a smile out of Taylor.

 

Success.

 

They’ve moved onto the fabric section, where Biz is insisting Taylor pick out something for the living room. Curtains. Taylor picked white, Biz said, “No.” Taylor’s next choice was black. “No.”

 

Now Taylor is saying, “Black is a color.”

 

“Black is the absence of color,” Biz corrects absently, fingering a nearby fabric. “There’s too much black and white in your place. It’s like a hospital.” It makes him grin when Taylor just shakes his head instead of being offended. A month ago, he would have scowled at Biz.

 

“How do you even know that?” Taylor asks, and he’s actually laughing a little.

 

Biz glares at him. “Just pick something. _Color_ ,” he reminds, and shoves at Taylor’s shoulder. “It’s been almost an hour already, Taylor, fuck.”

 

Taylor ends up pointing out a dark red print, with a thick strip of black near the top and a few strips of varying thickness above and below it.

 

Biz is impressed. “Not bad.”

 

-

 

Next is comfort.

 

“I don’t sleep in the living room, though.”

 

“Ever?”

 

“Not really.”

 

Biz frowns. “It’s for decoration. And it’s comfortable. Pick one. I like this one.”

 

Taylor strokes his fingers across the blanket. “It’s soft.”

 

“It matches your eyes,” Biz tells him.

 

-

 

“Success,” Biz says, out loud this time, while he and Taylor are in line, cart full.

 

The cashier grins indulgently at them, but Taylor doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy arguing with Biz about whose credit card gets swiped.

 

(Biz wins.)

 

“Call it a belated housewarming gift and shut up.”

 

-

-

 

They win the next three games after that, thanks largely going to Smitty for being an awesome sonofabitch, and Taylor and Biz end up on a line together a handful of times. Chemistry doesn’t develop instantly, but they do well enough that they’re practicing together on a Tuesday afternoon, Coach yelling instructions at them and they fit pretty well.

 

Biz is enjoying every second of it, hipchecking Taylor every chance he gets and grinning at Taylor’s face. Taylor gets him back once and Biz ends up flat on his back, staring up, up, up, and hearing laughter all around him.

 

He doesn’t mind one bit.

 

Coach works them hard, and Biz is ready for a shower as they head to the locker room, stripping down as he goes, and he runs into Taylor when he’s not looking. “Whoa. Hey, great practice, huh?” He grins at Taylor, who just shakes his head.

 

“You’re crazy.”

 

“But never boring,” Biz adds. “What’s up?”

 

Taylor’s hair is damp with sweat, and his forehead is glistening with it. Biz tries not to think about how much he wants to lick him and instead focuses on the words that Taylor’s saying, which, something about supper, and _hooooooold on_. What?

 

“Supper?” Taylor doesn’t get the chance to respond, because Biz continues, “Yeah, absolutely. I’m fucking starved. Where?”

 

Biz ends up following him to a restaurant he hasn’t been to very often. He orders steak, because he can, and relaxes, because Taylor has smiled more than once, and is actually talking, and sounds like he’s having a good time, and this is exactly what Biz has been working for.

 

Their knees knock together when Biz goes to the bathroom, and again when he gets back, and Taylor just looks amused and doesn’t protest Biz stealing fries off his plate.

 

“Payback for Wal-Mart,” Taylor knocks his hand aside, sending Biz’s credit card skittering, and hands the waitress his own when she brings them their bill, with mints.

 

Biz pops one in his mouth. “Uh huh,” he says. “Whatever you say, Pyatt.”

 

-

 

“That was fan-fucking-tastic,” Biz says, yawning and stretching on the way to their cars. “Plus, free food always tastes better.

 

Taylor looks amused, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

 

“Mmm,” Biz hums. “You never know.” He catches Taylor’s exasperated expression, grinning, and when Taylor reluctantly smiles back at him, he goes for it – leans in, careful hand pressing fingertips into the side of Taylor’s neck and kisses him.

 

He can feel Taylor’s pulse racing beneath his index finger; he registers the feeling right before Taylor pushes him back. “Fuck, Biz. Why did you do that?”

 

Taylor’s pissed.

 

Biz thinks, _fuck_ , and opens his mouth. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything, though.

 

“I told you I wasn’t – ” Taylor exhales loudly, stepping back, away from the passenger door. “I thought maybe we were on the same page, but –” He’s flushed red, dragging a hand through his hair, stumbling over his words. “I should go. Just, don’t… Don’t call me, alright?” He gets in his car, and Biz watches as he drives away.

 

Damn it.

 

-

 

Next practice, they get bitched out from Coach, because any chemistry they’d developed is now shot to hell. Taylor refuses to look at him or speak to him unless he has to, which means Biz’s chances of apologizing are pretty much nonexistent.

 

He can’t make a scene, or he’ll catch Doaner’s or Yands’ attention, and Taylor would get even more pissed than he already is, so, not thanks. Instead, he just keeps quiet, or as quiet as he can without people wondering what the hell’s wrong with him, keeps busy, and carries Taylor’s bag out the door for him and to his car, relying on the fact that Taylor won’t call him out in a place where anyone on the team can hear.

 

“Taylor-”

 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Taylor sighs, leaning tiredly against his car.

 

“Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry. I would have said it sooner.”

 

Taylor looks at the ground. “I needed some space. You’re a lot to deal with, sometimes.”

 

If Biz were easily offended, the comment would probably sting a little. And maybe it does at this point, coming from Taylor. He’s not sure. But either way, he chooses to brush it off. “I know, I come on strong,” he says.

 

“Pretty strong,” Taylor tells him. “You don’t take no for an answer, either.”

 

“No,” Biz concedes, “But that’s called perseverance.”

 

“It makes you a jerk, sometimes.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Taylor falls silent. “You’ve been a good friend. Thanks.” He looks up, then, and Biz hopes.

 

“Does this mean you forgive me?”

 

“I didn’t hit you,” Taylor says by way of response.

 

“You don’t hit anyone. You barely even fight!”

 

Taylor’s eyes narrow. “Don’t make me take it back,” he says, vaguely threatening.

 

Except it’s Taylor, so Biz can’t take him seriously. He smiles, though, easy and wide, knocking Taylor’s shoulder with his own. “You love my company.”

 

-

-

-

 

His stomach still aches from laughter.

 

He can’t remember the last time that happened.

 

Every time Biz’s eyes land on the Jersey Shore box set on Taylor’s coffee table, his shoulders start shaking.

 

“Where the hell you hid that sense of humour is what I want to know,” he says, taking a long swig of the beer in his hand and looking at Taylor, who grins.

 

He’s been doing more of that lately, but Biz isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it.

 

“Smile more,” he says.

 

Taylor’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “What?”

 

“Smile more,” Biz repeats. “Makes you look less broody and shit. Y’know.”

 

Taylor’s couch is really comfortable. They’re both sprawled on opposite ends of it, Biz’s socked feet kicked up on the coffee table. Their abandoned game of COD is muted, game controllers lying on the ground, near-empty case of Yuengling Lager on the floor between them, bottles on the coffee and end tables from the last few hours, and Taylor is still grinning at him from across the couch, and Biz feels warm and lazy and relaxed like he hasn’t felt in a long while.

 

“Biz,” Taylor says.

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“Happy birthday.”

 

Biz lets his head loll to the side, gazing at him. “’s not for another three days, there, buddy. Got your days mixed up.”

 

Taylor shakes his head, minutely. “I cannot believe,” he says softly, and then, “You’re a moron, Bissonnette.”

 

“Thank you,” Biz says, “I’m refusing to take that as anything other than a compliment, so you’ll –”

 

“It was.”

 

There shouldn’t be anything graceful about the way Taylor moves closer, but somehow Biz can’t look away, eyes locked on Taylor’s bright blue ones as the inches between them disappear.

 

Taylor gets ninety percent of the way before he freezes – doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move an inch.

 

Biz rubs his fingertips over the bottle in his right hand, drops of condensation smearing. “Taylor…” He remembers what happened last time. All too well. He’s been careful since then, careful not to push too hard, not to press too much. He’s screwed up, yeah, but Taylor’s here, now, so he figures he hasn’t fucked things up beyond repair just yet.

 

“Yeah?”

 

And it’s funny, it’s downright hilarious that Taylor says it, just a few centimetres separating them from doing what Biz has wanted to do for _months_ already, forced casual tone like he wasn’t about to do what Biz suspects.

 

“You deserve to be happy, Taylor,” he says, shrugging, because it’s the only thing he can do right now.

 

Be honest.

 

“I _am_ happy,” Taylor tells him, with such affection and amusement in his tone that Biz can’t help himself. He leans in the next ten percent, and kisses the lingering smile on Taylor’s mouth.

 

-

-

-

 

Taylor is tracing over the ink in his skin with his fingertips. Light, exploratory.

 

Also, tickling.

 

Biz doesn’t squirm, but it’s a near thing. He’s got an arm thrown up over and behind his head, holding up his neck, and watching Taylor’s fingers skirt over the tattoo along his right side. He doesn’t want to move, happy in a way he’ll never tell anyone that less than an hour ago, he had sex with Taylor Pyatt and Taylor hasn’t bolted yet.

 

Success?

 

Possibly.

 

“Tickles,” he mutters, closing his eyes. He lets Taylor withdraw his hand, watching Taylor’s brow furrow.

 

“You’ve got a lot of tattoos,” Taylor says unnecessarily.

 

“They make me feel badass,” Biz jokes.

 

Taylor shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure everyone already knows that, Biz.”

 

Biz opens one eye, trying to look indignant. “What are you implying?”

 

“Nothing,” Taylor says, and stifles a yawn.

 

“You can sleep, if you want.” It feels weird to say it, it’s not like Biz has to _allow_ Taylor to take a nap in his house, but Taylor’s still a little bit tense. Biz wouldn’t mind a shower right now, either.

 

Taylor relaxes back into the pillows a little bit. “I’m good. Could use a shower though,” he says, and there’s that flush on his face, like he’s just realized what they’ve done all over again. Biz kind of wants to reach out and poke at the lines on his forehead, smooth them out until they disappear, but he doesn’t.

 

“Go for it,” he says instead, waves his free hand lazily. “I’ll go when you’re done.”

 

Taylor hesitates. “You sure?”

 

“Yeah,” Biz says. “Towels in the linen closet. Have at it. My shower’s bitchin’.”

 

-

 

It takes him a few seconds to wake up, muscles loose and still hazy with pleasure, but he notices Taylor’s not in bed with him. Another few minutes of padding around reveals Taylor’s not in the kitchen or the living room. And his shoes are gone.

 

Biz scrubs a hand over his face.

 

Shit.

 

There’s a note, though, on the counter, in Taylor’s remarkably neat handwriting.

 

_Thanks, had a great time._

-          _T_

 

Had a great time? _Had a great time???_

 

He glances at the clock. 10:42pm. He’s only been asleep for an hour. He grabs his phone from the table in his bedroom, shoots off a text.

 

_That tired?_

 

Forty five minutes pass with no reply.

 

-

 

The next day at practice, Taylor goes to great lengths to avoid him. Again.

 

Biz plays frustratedly, and he knows that it shows. Coach pulls him aside, and out of the corner of his eye Biz can see Taylor watch them for a second, then skate off, looking unsettled. Biz nods and listens to what Coach has to say for the next six minutes before he promises he’ll be better, he just had a rough night and he’ll be better rested for tomorrow’s game.

 

He manages to catch Taylor on his way to the car, and Taylor stops with his hand on the door.

 

“I’m following you home,” Biz tells him, because they’re not having this discussion here.

 

Taylor nods. “Okay.”

 

-

 

Biz rubs at his forehead, because Taylor is sitting across the living room from him in the armchair with his legs tucked up under him and really, Biz is not a total idiot at reading body language. “Why are you running away from me again?”

 

Taylor cuts a glance to the side, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t- ”

 

Biz raises an eyebrow. “I’m offended that you think I’m that much of a moron.”

 

Taylor’s mouth tightens a little. “I thought it’s what you wanted.”

 

“What?”

 

Biz is genuinely confused, here. What part of this is Taylor not getting?

 

“You thought, what? That I just wanted in your pants? A quick fuck,” (Taylor flinches at that, but Biz makes himself continue), “and I’d kick you out? Babe, I’m flattered, but you’re not _that_ hot. If I really just needed to get laid, I’d go out and get laid.”

 

Taylor’s mouth is still pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed firmly on a spot on the carpet that lets him avoid Biz’s gaze.

 

Biz leans forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. “I get that it’s a foreign concept to you, but the last four months? Fill in the blank – f is for, I’ll give you a hint: it’s not foreplay.”

 

“You like girls,” Taylor says quietly, and Biz scoots forward with a sigh, reaches out to hook his fingers in the neckline of Taylor’s t-shirt and pull him forward until Taylor is forced to meet his eyes.

 

“I like _you_ , dumbass. That’s what this is all about.”

 

Taylor says, “Oh,” and Biz says,

 

“Yeah,” grinning affectionately at him. “I mean, dating the same person for a decade probably blinded you to people being, you know. Checking you out and shit. You’re kinda hot.” His grin grows even wider at the blush that rises to Taylor’s face at that, thankful he hasn’t stepped over the line.

 

Taylor still isn’t smiling, though, so he continues. “I get some weird ass satisfaction or some shit from like, making you smile and not be mopey and whatever, so.” Biz shifts his fingers, feeling Taylor’s skin warm against the back of them, hoping Taylor gets what he’s not saying, because romantic bullshit isn’t really his thing.

 

I like making you happy.

 

Taylor blinks slowly, and dips his chin in a nod. “This is still….”

 

“Different.”

 

“Yeah. I still miss Carly.”

 

Biz lets his fingers untangle. “You probably always will. I get that.” God, this conversation is the strangest one he’s ever had in his _life_. “She sounds like an amazing woman.” He pauses. “I’m never going to replace her, Taylor. I can’t do that, and you can’t do that. And I’m not trying to.”

 

Taylor’s chewing on the inside of his mouth, what he does when he’s thinking really hard.

 

“I’m fucking terrible at this shit,” Biz huffs, scrubbing a hand over his face, shrugging. His eyes are closed; he hears noises that must be Taylor walking away, but then he feels a warmth against his side and a hand at his back, and Taylor –

 

… hugs him.

 

“Thank you,” he says, murmurs it into the side of Biz’s neck and it sinks in like tattoo ink, a mix of sting and adrenaline and Taylor’s lips on his skin and just like that, Taylor lets him go, and Biz stares at him until they’re kissing.

 

He thinks, not for the first time, _fuck, I’m screwed_.

 

He hasn’t felt this okay about it in… ever.

 

-

-

 

“Oh. Are we dating?” Taylor asks him in the middle of killing zombies with a game controller almost a week later.

 

Biz laughs until his stomach hurts and tackles him to the floor, kissing him breathless.


End file.
